Cane

by Jean Toomer

  Kabnis: Christ no! What had she done?

  Layman: Tried t hide her husband when they was after him.

  A shriek pierces the room. The bronze pieces on the mantel hum. The sister cries frantically: “Jesus, Jesus, I’ve found Jesus. O Lord, glory t God, one mo sinner is acomin home.” At the height of this, a stone, wrapped round with paper, crashes through the window. Kabnis springs to his feet, terror-stricken. Layman is worried. Halsey picks up the stone. Takes off the wrapper, smooths it out, and reads: “You northern nigger, its time fer y t leave. Git along now.” Kabnis knows that the command is meant for him. Fear squeezes him. Caves him in. As a violent external pressure would. Fear flows inside him. It fills him up. He bloats. He saves himself from bursting by dashing wildly from the room. Halsey and Layman stare stupidly at each other. The stone, the crumpled paper are things, huge things that weight them. Their thoughts are vaguely concerned with the texture of the stone, with the color of the paper. Then they remember the words, and begin to shift them about in sentences. Layman even construes them grammatically. Suddenly the sense of them comes back to Halsey. He grips Layman by the arm and they both follow after Kabnis.

  A false dusk has come early. The countryside is ashen, chill. Cabins and roads and canebrakes whisper. The church choir, dipping into a long silence, sings:

  My Lord, what a mourning,

  My Lord, what a mourning,

  My Lord, what a mourning,

  When the stars begin to fall.

  Softly luminous over the hills and valleys, the faint spray of a scattered star…

  3

  A splotchy figure drives forward along the cane-and corn-stalk hemmed-in road. A scarecrow replica of Kabnis, awkwardly animate. Fantastically plastered with red Georgia mud. It skirts the big house whose windows shine like mellow lanterns in the dusk. Its shoulder jogs against a sweet-gum tree. The figure caroms off against the cabin door, and lunges in. It slams the door as if to prevent some one entering after it.

  “God Almighty, theyre here. After me. On me. All along the road I saw their eyes flaring from the cane. Hounds. Shouts. What in God’s name did I run here for? A mud-hole trap. I stumbled on a rope. O God, a rope. Their clammy hands were like the love of death playing up and down my spine. Trying to trip my legs. To trip my spine. Up and down my spine. My spine…My legs…Why in hell didnt they catch me?”

  Kabnis wheels around, half defiant, half numbed with a more immediate fear.

  “Wanted to trap me here. Get out o there. I see you.”

  He grabs a broom from beside the chimney and violently pokes it under the bed. The broom strikes a tin wash-tub. The noise bewilders. He recovers.

  “Not there. In the closet.”

  He throws the broom aside and grips the poker. Starts towards the closet door, towards somewhere in the perfect blackness behind the chimney.

  “I’ll brain you.”

  He stops short. The barks of hounds, evidently in pursuit, reach him. A voice, liquid in distance, yells, “Hi! Hi!”

  “O God, theyre after me. Holy Father, Mother of Christ—hell, this aint no time for prayer—”

  Voices, just outside the door:

  “Reckon he’s here.”

  “Dont see no light though.”

  The door is flung open.

  Kabnis: Get back or I’ll kill you.

  He braces himself, brandishing the poker.

  Halsey (coming in): Aint as bad as all that. Put that thing down.

  Layman: Its only us, Professor. Nobody else after y.

  Kabnis: Halsey. Layman. Close that door. Dont light that light. For godsake get away from there.

  Halsey: Nobody’s after y, Kabnis, I’m tellin y. Put that thing down an get yourself together.

  Kabnis: I tell you they are. I saw them. I heard the hounds.

  Halsey: These aint th days of hounds an Uncle Tom’s Cabin, feller. White folks aint in fer all them theatrics these days. Theys more direct than that. If what they wanted was t get y, theyd have just marched right in an took y where y sat. Somebodys down by th branch chasin rabbits an atreein possums.

  A shot is heard.

  Halsey: Got him, I reckon. Saw Tom goin out with his gun. Tom’s pretty lucky most times.

  He goes to the bureau and lights the lamp. The circular fringe is patterned on the ceiling. The moving shadows of the men are huge against the bare wall boards. Halsey walks up to Kabnis, takes the poker from his grip, and without more ado pushes him into a chair before the dark hearth.

  Halsey: Youre a mess. Here, Layman. Get some trash an start a fire.

  Layman fumbles around, finds some newspapers and old bags, puts them in the hearth, arranges the wood, and kindles the fire. Halsey sets a black iron kettle where it soon will be boiling. Then takes from his hip-pocket a bottle of corn licker which he passes to Kabnis.

  Halsey: Here. This’ll straighten y out a bit.

  Kabnis nervously draws the cork and gulps the licker down.

  Kabnis: Ha. Good stuff. Thanks. Thank y, Halsey.

  Halsey: Good stuff! Youre damn right. Hanby there dont think so. Wonder he doesnt come over t find out whos burnin his oil. Miserly bastard, him. Th boys what made this stuff—are y listenin t me, Kabnis? th boys what made this stuff have got th art down like I heard you say youd like t be with words. Eh? Have some, Layman?

  Layman: Dont think I care for none, thank y jes th same, Mr. Halsey.

  Halsey: Care hell. Course y care. Everybody cares around these parts. Preachers an school teachers an everybody. Here. Here, take it. Dont try that line on me.

  Layman limbers up a little, but he cannot quite forget that he is on school ground.

  Layman: Thats right. Thats true, sho. Shinin is th only business what pays in these hard times.

  He takes a nip, and passes the bottle to Kabnis. Kabnis is in the middle of a long swig when a rap sounds on the door. He almost spills the bottle, but manages to pass it to Halsey just as the door swings open and Hanby enters. He is a well-dressed, smooth, rich, black-skinned Negro who thinks there is no one quite so suave and polished as himself. To members of his own race, he affects the manners of a wealthy white planter. Or, when he is up North, he lets it be known that his ideas are those of the best New England tradition. To white men he bows, without ever completely humbling himself. Tradesmen in the town tolerate him because he spends his money with them. He delivers his words with a full consciousness of his moral superiority.

  Hanby: Hum. Erer, Professor Kabnis, to come straight to the point: the progress of the Negro race is jeopardized whenever the personal habits and examples set by its guides and mentors fall below the acknowledged and hard-won standard of its average member. This institution, of which I am the humble president, was founded, and has been maintained at a cost of great labor and untold sacrifice. Its purpose is to teach our youth to live better, cleaner, more noble lives. To prove to the world that the Negro race can be just like any other race. It hopes to attain this aim partly by the salutary examples set by its instructors. I cannot hinder the progress of a race simply to indulge a single member. I have thought the matter out beforehand, I can assure you. Therefore, if I find your resignation on my desk by to-morrow morning, Mr. Kabnis, I shall not feel obliged to call in the sheriff. Otherwise…”

  Kabnis: A fellow can take a drink in his own room if he wants to, in the privacy of his own room.

  Hanby: His room, but not the institution’s room, Mr. Kabnis.

  Kabnis: This is my room while I’m in it.

  Hanby: Mr. Clayborn (the sheriff) can inform you as to that.

  Kabnis: Oh, well, what do I care—glad to get out of this mud-hole.

  Hanby: I should think so from your looks.

  Kabnis: You neednt get sarcastic about it.

  Hanby: No, that is true. And I neednt wait for your resignation either, Mr. Kabnis.

  Kabnis: Oh, you’ll get that all right. Dont worry.

  Hanby: And I should like to have the room thoroughly aired and c
leaned and ready for your successor by to-morrow noon, Professor.

  Kabnis (trying to rise): You can have your godam room right away. I dont want it.

  Hanby: But I wont have your cursing.

  Halsey pushes Kabnis back into his chair.

  Halsey: Sit down, Kabnis, till I wash y.

  Hanby (to Halsey): I would rather not have drinking men on the premises, Mr. Halsey. You will oblige me—

  Halsey: I’ll oblige you by stayin right on this spot, this spot, get me? till I get damned ready t leave.

  He approaches Hanby. Hanby retreats, but manages to hold his dignity.

  Halsey: Let me get you told right now, Mr. Samuel Hanby. Now listen t me. I aint no slick an span slave youve hired, an dont y think it for a minute. Youve bullied enough about this town. An besides, wheres that bill youve been owin me? Listen t me. If I dont get it paid in by tmorrer noon, Mr. Hanby (he mockingly assumes Hanby’s tone and manner), I shall feel obliged t call th sheriff. An that sheriff’ll be myself who’ll catch y in th road an pull y out your buggy an lightly attend t y. You heard me. Now leave him alone. I’m takin him home with me. I got it fixed. Before you came in. He’s goin t work with me. Shapin shafts and buildin wagons’ll make a man of him what nobody, y get me? what nobody can take advantage of. Thats all…

  Halsey burrs off into vague and incoherent comment.

  Pause. Disagreeable.

  Layman’s eyes are glazed on the spurting fire.

  Kabnis wants to rise and put both Halsey and Hanby in their places. He vaguely knows that he must do this, else the power of direction will completely slip from him to those outside. The conviction is just strong enough to torture him. To bring a feverish, quick-passing flare into his eyes. To mutter words soggy in hot saliva. To jerk his arms upward in futile protest. Halsey, noticing his gestures, thinks it is water that he desires. He brings a glass to him. Kabnis slings it to the floor. Heat of the conviction dies. His arms crumple. His upper lip, his mustache, quiver. Rap! rap, on the door. The sounds slap Kabnis. They bring a hectic color to his cheeks. Like huge cold finger tips they touch his skin and goose-flesh it. Hanby strikes a commanding pose. He moves toward Layman. Layman’s face is innocently immobile.

  Halsey: Whos there?

  Voice: Lewis.

  Halsey: Come in, Lewis. Come on in.

  Lewis enters. He is the queer fellow who has been referred to. A tall wiry copper-colored man, thirty perhaps. His mouth and eyes suggest purpose guided by an adequate intelligence. He is what a stronger Kabnis might have been, and in an odd faint way resembles him. As he steps towards the others, he seems to be issuing sharply from a vivid dream. Lewis shakes hands with Halsey. Nods perfunctorily to Hanby, who has stiffened to meet him. Smiles rapidly at Layman, and settles with real interest on Kabnis.

  Lewis: Kabnis passed me on the road. Had a piece of business of my own, and couldnt get here any sooner. Thought I might be able to help in some way or other.

  Halsey: A good baths bout all he needs now. An somethin t put his mind t rest.

  Lewis: I think I can give him that. That note was meant for me. Some Negroes have grown uncomfortable at my being here—

  Kabnis: You mean, Mr. Lewis, some colored folks threw it? Christ Almighty!

  Halsey: Thats what he means. An just as I told y. White folks more direct than that.

  Kabnis: What are they after you for?

  Lewis: Its a long story, Kabnis. Too long for now. And it might involve present company. (He laughs pleasantly and gestures vaguely in the direction of Hanby.) Tell you about it later on perhaps.

  Kabnis: Youre not going?

  Lewis: Not till my month’s up.

  Halsey: Hows that?

  Lewis: I’m on a sort of contract with myself. (Is about to leave.) Well, glad its nothing serious—

  Halsey: Come round t th shop sometime why dont y, Lewis? I’ve asked y enough. I’d like t have a talk with y. I aint as dumb as I look. Kabnis an me’ll be in most any time. Not much work these days. Wish t hell there was. This burg gets to me when there aint. (In answer to Lewis’ question.) He’s goin t work with me. Ya. Night air this side th branch aint good fer him. (Looks at Hanby. Laughs.)

  Lewis: I see…

  His eyes turn to Kabnis. In the instant of their shifting, a vision of the life they are to meet. Kabnis, a promise of a soil-soaked beauty; uprooted, thinning out. Suspended a few feet above the soil whose touch would resurrect him. Arm’s length removed from him whose will to help…There is a swift intuitive interchange of consciousness. Kabnis has a sudden need to rush into the arms of this man. His eyes call, “Brother.” And then a savage, cynical twist-about within him mocks his impulse and strengthens him to repulse Lewis. His lips curl cruelly. His eyes laugh. They are glittering needles, stitching. With a throbbing ache they draw Lewis to. Lewis brusquely wheels on Hanby.

  Lewis: I’d like to see you, sir, a moment, if you dont mind.

  Hanby’s tight collar and vest effectively preserve him.

  Hanby: Yes, erer, Mr. Lewis. Right away.

  Lewis: See you later, Halsey.

  Halsey: So long—thanks—sho hope so, Lewis.

  As he opens the door and Hanby passes out, a woman, miles down the valley, begins to sing. Her song is a spark that travels swiftly to the near-by cabins. Like purple tallow flames, songs jet up. They spread a ruddy haze over the heavens. The haze swings low. Now the whole countryside is a soft chorus. Lord. O Lord…Lewis closes the door behind him. A flame jets out…

  The kettle is boiling. Halsey notices it. He pulls the wash-tub from beneath the bed. He arranges for the bath before the fire.

  Halsey: Told y them theatrics didnt fit a white man. Th niggers, just like I told y. An after him. Aint surprisin though. He aint bowed t none of them. Nassur. T nairy a one of them nairy an inch nairy a time. An only mixed when he was good an ready—

  Kabnis: That song, Halsey, do you hear it?

  Halsey: Thats a man. Hear me, Kabnis? A man—

  Kabnis: Jesus, do you hear it.

  Halsey: Hear it? Hear what? Course I hear it. Listen t what I’m tellin y. A man, get me? They’ll get him yet if he dont watch out.

  Kabnis is jolted into his fear.

  Kabnis: Get him? What do you mean? How? Not lynch him?

  Halsey: Na. Take a shotgun an shoot his eyes clear out. Well, anyway, it wasnt fer you, just like I told y. You’ll stay over at th house an work with me, eh, boy? Good t get away from his nobs, eh? Damn big stiff though, him. An youre not th first an I can tell y. (Laughs.) He bustles and fusses about Kabnis as if he were a child. Kabnis submits, wearily. He has no will to resist him.

  Layman (his voice is like a deep hollow echo): Thats right. Thats true, sho. Everybody’s been expectin that th bust up was comin. Surprised um all y held on as long as y did. Teachin in th South aint th thing fer y. Nassur. You ought t be way back up North where sometimes I wish I was. But I’ve hung on down this away so long—

  Halsey: An there’ll never be no leavin time fer y.

  4

  A month has passed.

  Halsey’s work-shop. It is an old building just off the main street of Sempter. The walls to within a few feet of the ground are of an age-worn cement mixture. On the outside they are considerably crumbled and peppered with what looks like musket-shot. Inside, the plaster has fallen away in great chunks, leaving the laths, grayed and cobwebbed, exposed. A sort of loft above the shop proper serves as a break-water for the rain and sunshine which otherwise would have free entry to the main floor. The shop is filled with old wheels and parts of wheels, broken shafts, and wooden litter. A double door, midway the street wall. To the left of this, a work-bench that holds a vise and a variety of woodwork tools. A window with as many panes broken as whole, throws light on the bench. Opposite, in the rear wall, a second window looks out upon the back yard. In the left wall, a rickety smoke-blackened chimney, and hearth with fire blazing. Smooth-worn chairs grouped about the hearth suggest the village meeting-place. S
everal large wooden blocks, chipped and cut and sawed on their upper surfaces are in the middle of the floor. They are the supports used in almost any sort of wagon-work. Their idleness means that Halsey has no worth-while job on foot. To the right of the central door is a junk heap, and directly behind this, stairs that lead down into the cellar. The cellar is known as “The Hole.” Besides being the home of a very old man, it is used by Halsey on those occasions when he spices up the life of the small town.

  Halsey, wonderfully himself in his work overalls, stands in the doorway and gazes up the street, expectantly. Then his eyes grow listless. He slouches against the smooth-rubbed frame. He lights a cigarette. Shifts his position. Braces an arm against the door. Kabnis passes the window and stoops to get in under Halsey’s arm. He is awkward and ludicrous, like a schoolboy in his big brother’s new overalls. He skirts the large blocks on the floor, and drops into a chair before the fire. Halsey saunters towards him.

  Kabnis: Time f lunch.

  Halsey: Ya.

  He stands by the hearth, rocking backward and forward. He stretches his hands out to the fire. He washes them in the warm glow of the flames. They never get cold, but he warms them.

  Kabnis: Saw Lewis up th street. Said he’d be down.

  Halsey’s eyes brighten. He looks at Kabnis. Turns away. Says nothing. Kabnis fidgets. Twists his thin blue cloth-covered limbs. Pulls closer to the fire till the heat stings his shins. Pushes back. Pokes the burned logs. Puts on several fresh ones. Fidgets. The town bell strikes twelve.

  Kabnis: Fix it up f tnight?

  Halsey: Leave it t me.

  Kabnis: Get Lewis in?

  Halsey: Tryin t.

  The air is heavy with the smell of pine and resin. Green logs spurt and sizzle. Sap trickles from an old pine-knot into the flames. Layman enters. He carries a lunch-pail. Kabnis, for the moment, thinks that he is a day laborer.

  Layman: Evenin, gen’lemun.

  Both: Whats say, Layman.

  Layman squares a chair to the fire and droops into it. Several town fellows, silent unfathomable men for the most part, saunter in. Overalls. Thick tan shoes. Felt hats marvelously shaped and twisted. One asks Halsey for a cigarette. He gets it. The blacksmith, a tremendous black man, comes in from the forge. Not even a nod from him. He picks up an axle and goes out. Lewis enters. The town men look curiously at him. Suspicion and an open liking contest for possession of their faces. They are uncomfortable. One by one they drift into the street.